“And do you suppose Fritz understands any of it?” I went on.

“No.  Or he wouldn’t have lusitaniaed.  This war was his first chance of making his name, and he chucked it all away for the sake of showin’ off as a foul Gottstrafer.”

And they talked of that hour of the night when submarines come to the top like mermaids to get and give information; of boats whose business it is to fire as much and to splash about as aggressively as possible; and of other boats who avoid any sort of display—­dumb boats watching and relieving watch, with their periscope just showing like a crocodile’s eye, at the back of islands and the mouths of channels where something may some day move out in procession to its doom.

    Be well assured that on our side
      Our challenged oceans fight,
    Though headlong wind and heaping tide
      Make us their sport to-night. 
    Through force of weather, not of war,
      In jeopardy we steer. 
    Then, welcome Fate’s discourtesy
      Whereby it shall appear
        How in all time of our distress
        As in our triumph too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew!

    Be well assured, though wave and wind
      Have mightier blows in store,
    That we who keep the watch assigned
      Must stand to it the more;
    And as our streaming bows dismiss
      Each billow’s baulked career,
    Sing, welcome Fate’s discourtesy
      Whereby it is made clear
        How in all time of our distress
        As in our triumph too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew!

    Be well assured, though in our power
      Is nothing left to give
    But time and place to meet the hour
      And leave to strive to live,
    Till these dissolve our Order holds,
      Our Service binds us here. 
    Then, welcome Fate’s discourtesy
      Whereby it is made clear
        How in all time of our distress
        And our deliverance too,
        The game is more than the player of the game,
        And the ship is more than the crew!

PATROLS

I

On the edge of the North Sea sits an Admiral in charge of a stretch of coast without lights or marks, along which the traffic moves much as usual.  In front of him there is nothing but the east wind, the enemy, and some few our ships.  Behind him there are towns, with M.P.’s attached, who a little while ago didn’t see the reason for certain lighting orders.  When a Zeppelin or two came, they saw.  Left and right of him are enormous docks, with vast crowded sheds, miles of stone-faced quay-edges, loaded with all manner of supplies and crowded with mixed shipping.